


The Wardle Wipeout

by LulaIsAKitten



Series: First Misses [23]
Category: Cormoran Strike Series - Robert Galbraith
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-13
Updated: 2019-09-13
Packaged: 2020-11-02 04:41:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,197
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20624864
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LulaIsAKitten/pseuds/LulaIsAKitten
Summary: Follows directly on from V...





	The Wardle Wipeout

**Author's Note:**

> Follows directly on from V...

Strike strolled up to Wardle stood at the bar and gave him a cheerful grin.

The two detectives and their colleagues were enjoying an impromptu evening in the pub celebrating the end of a tricky case which a joint effort had brought to fruition. The planned one pint had extended into a second, and then a third round seemed to have settled without words that this was now an evening, not just a quick drink. Robin and Vanessa, firm friends these days, were chatting away, and the two men, neither of whom would admit a grudging liking for the other, were discovering more common ground than they’d previously thought they had.

Strike had been vaguely considering leaving after this pint, but was wondering if he had imagined an almost-moment with Robin in the corridor just now. Somehow this seemed to have settled the question for him. He was certainly going to stay now until such time as he could reasonably offer to walk Robin home. Three pints were drowning out the warning bells in his head that normally kept his thoughts on the straight and narrow. Suddenly something happening with Robin felt inevitable rather than impossible. They seemed to have been drifting towards one another for so long. Perhaps it was time.

He forced his focus to the man in front of him. That would have to be filed away to think about later.

“Cheers.” He picked up his pint and raised it a little in acknowledgement, and took a long draught.

He lowered the glass. Wardle was watching him thoughtfully. “What?”

“You gonna ask Robin out?”

Taken by surprise at the sudden perception of something so close to the forefront of his mind, Strike blustered. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

“I’m not. Come on, man, I’m serious. You’ve been singing her praises all evening.”

“Because she’s a good detective. You’ve acknowledged the work Vanessa did on the case.”

“That’s different. I’m married, and I didn’t get all dewy-eyed about it.”

Strike glared. “I didn’t get dewy-eyed.”

Wardle just grinned at him, and Strike scowled. “Fuck off,” he muttered, and Wardle laughed.

“You’re not fooling anyone, mate,” he said, not unkindly. Strike huffed a little into his pint, remembering the way Robin had looked at him, the way he hadn’t been able to remove his hand from her upper arm, the way his fingers had slid down, almost caressing her—

Robin appeared at his elbow and Strike jumped a little and turned to put his pint on the bar.

Wardle slid a glass of wine towards her. “Vanessa left this for you.”

Robin smiled. “I just passed her on the way to the loo. Thanks.” Her eyes longed to find Strike’s, but Wardle was looking directly at her and she held his gaze.

“So Gooner tells me pretty much everything you guys did on this case was you?”

Robin winked. “He helped.”

Wardle roared with laughter. “Ouch!” He turned gleeful eyes to the detective, and Robin allowed her gaze to flick that way too. “You helped?”

Strike grinned, unperturbed. “This one lent itself to her expertise more.”

Wardle nodded, smiling, and raised his glass to Robin. “Well, congratulations,” he said warmly, and for once his smirk was absent. Robin grinned and clinked her glass to his, and picked up her and Vanessa’s glasses and headed back towards their little table in the window.

Strike resolutely refused to watch her go, and Wardle rolled his eyes a little. He parked his pint on the bar next to Strike’s. “Going for a slash,” he announced.

“I’m going for a smoke,” Strike replied. “See you out there?”

Wardle shook his head regretfully. “April persuaded me to quit again. Gum for me.” He patted his pocket resignedly. “But, hey, I’ll live longer than you!” Grinning, he clapped Strike on the arm and stepped past him towards the back of the pub.

Shaking his head a little, Strike pulled his cigarettes from his pocket and headed for the door.

Robin sat down and tried not to watch the men covertly, pretending to be busy on her phone. She saw Wardle clap Strike on the arm, and head in the direction of the toilets. Strike fished in his jacket for his cigarettes and headed for the pub door.

She had a brief, brief window. Vanessa would be back any moment. Robin abandoned their glasses and followed Strike out onto the street.

He’d lit his cigarette and wandered away from the door a few paces. She paused to watch him, stood with his back to her, shoulders broad. As she watched, he dropped his head back and blew smoke into the air. His shoulders slumped slightly. He sighed, then turned back towards her.

Their eyes met, and Strike paused, then smiled at her. “What brings you out here?”

Out of the corner of her eye, Robin could see Vanessa slide into her seat at their window table. Mercifully, she was on the phone, and Robin determinedly ignored the knowing look she was getting.

“Just came to say hi,” she said. “Cormoran—”

She stepped towards him, acutely conscious that Vanessa was watching.

Strike looked at her for a long moment, drawing on his cigarette again, and his gaze flickered, just for a moment, to the keen-eyed detective sat in the window, talking into her phone, pretending not to be interested.

He stepped back a little, moving away from the pub’s frontage, and Robin followed. They passed the door and moved to stand outside the main door to the next building, with its peeling paint and row of buzzers.

Robin looked up at him, wondering how or even if to broach the subject. How to mention the unmentionable. How to start to talk about the thing they never talked about, that she only seemed able to even acknowledge to herself when buoyed up by three glasses of wine.

Strike was looking down at her, his expression fond. He dropped his cigarette end into the gutter, blew the smoke away and appeared to reach a decision. He squared his shoulders a little and took a breath.

“Robin—” He stepped towards her, and Robin’s heart began to beat faster. Those dark eyes on hers again.

The pub door swung open and suddenly Wardle was behind them. “Hey Gooner, could I change my mind—”

Strike stepped back hurriedly even as Robin dropped her gaze. Wardle nearly cannoned into the back of her and, startled, she half turned. Almost tangled up in one another, neither Robin nor Wardle could make a grab for Strike as his good leg almost buckled, his foot half on and half off the kerb. He stepped back again, his weight lurching onto his prosthesis, and his knee twisted. Almost in slow motion, he went down with an angry curse, landing with a sickening crunch on his right wrist, feeling something give with white hot pain that lanced up his arm, his knee wrenching and his artificial ankle, rigid as always, forcing his leg to a worse angle. To add insult to injury, his head bounced off the door panel of the car parked at the kerb, making him see stars and setting the car’s alarm off.

“Fuck!”


End file.
